Hi, beautiful listeners. Today's episode is deeply personal. I hesitated to share this because it's raw, vulnerable, and still so fresh. But if there's one thing I've learned in my life, and in just being human—it's that our stories have power. They connect us. And sometimes, just knowing you're not alone can make all the difference.
This is a story I never thought I'd be telling. But here I am.
I am 49 when I found out I was pregnant.
At first, I thought my body was just shifting into that next chapter—perimenopause, hormones changing, the usual. But something felt… different. And then, the test. Positive.
I remember staring at it, trying to process what this meant. Forty-nine. A baby. A whole new life. And me? At this stage? I wasn't prepared for this moment, for this possibility. And yet, there it was.
The emotions came in waves. Shock. Fear. Wonder. A tiny flicker of excitement. And then the realization: this wasn't going to last.
The doctor confirmed my fears—it wasn't viable. My body, my age, my everything—it just wasn't in the cards. And within days, the cramping started, the bleeding followed. A miscarriage.
I thought I would be devastated. And in a way, I was. But here's the part no one really talks about—the relief.
I felt relieved.
And then, the guilt for feeling that relief. Because what kind of person is relieved at losing a pregnancy? At losing a life?
It's hard to admit. But it's the truth.
I thought about the "what ifs." What if I had carried this pregnancy to term? What if I had a baby at 50? What would my life look like? How would I do this? And beneath all that wondering was a quiet voice whispering… maybe this is for the best.
And that voice—oh, how I hated that voice. Because it felt cruel. Selfish. But was it? Or was it just my body, my mind, my heart protecting me from what I knew deep down?
The miscarriage didn't happen all at once. It dragged on. And I needed a D&C to remove the remaining tissue.
That procedure. The sterile room. The soft voices of the nurses. The aching emptiness that followed. I remember lying there afterward, breathing through the pain, the hormones, the physical and emotional rollercoaster that no one ever really prepares you for.
Grief. Relief. Shame. Gratitude. They all coexisted, tangled up inside of me.
One thing I realized during this experience is that we don't talk enough about the emotional and mental health aspects of miscarriage. And not just for women—for men too.
We often forget that miscarriage is a shared experience. If there is a partner involved, they are grieving too, in their own way. They may not have felt the physical shifts, the hormones raging, the body changing—but they felt the loss. They felt the fear. They imagined the future that suddenly disappeared. And often, they don't know where to put their grief.
I want to take a moment to acknowledge the mental health impact of pregnancy loss—for both women and men:
For women, miscarriage can trigger depression, anxiety, and even PTSD. The hormonal crash, the physical pain, the emotional weight—it's a lot. You are not weak for struggling. You are not broken for grieving. If you need help, seek it. Therapy, support groups, even just talking to someone who understands can make all the difference.
For men, the emotional toll is real. But society doesn't always give men permission to grieve. They may feel they have to be "strong," to support their partner, to push aside their own sadness. But miscarriage isn't just a woman's loss—it's a shared loss. And their grief is valid. If you are a man who has gone through this, know that your emotions matter. Don't bottle them up. Find someone to talk to.
There are incredible resources out there:
📌 Postpartum Support International (PSI) – offers help for pregnancy and infant loss
📌 The Miscarriage Association – online forums, helplines, and support groups
📌 Still Standing Magazine – a beautiful space for stories of loss and healing
📌 Counseling and therapy – finding a professional who specializes in grief and loss can be life-changing
And if you have a friend or loved one going through this, just be there for them. Sometimes, the best thing you can say is simply: "I'm here. You don't have to go through this alone."
I don't have some perfect bow to tie around this story. There's no grand lesson or moral here. Just honesty.
I am 49. I was pregnant. I lost it. And I felt relief.
And maybe that's okay.
Maybe it's okay to feel all the things—to mourn what could have been while also knowing, in some way, that it wasn't meant to be. Maybe it's okay to let go of the guilt, to trust our bodies, our lives, our journeys.
For anyone listening who has been through this—who has felt the crushing weight of loss or the quiet, unspoken relief—you are not alone. You are allowed to feel it all. And you are allowed to heal in whatever way you need to.
Thank you for holding space for me today. For listening. For being part of this journey with me.
Life doesn't always unfold the way we expect. But even in the messiness, the pain, and the unexpected turns, we find ourselves.
Take care of your heart, take care of your body, and remember—bliss is your birthright. Be grateful for where you are, and have vision for what's ahead.
Until next time.
